


How We Do It

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Bondage, Dominance, Embarrassment, M/M, Romance, Shame, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sniper has a pretty tame kink, but that’s not how Australians do things.  Australians don’t have kinks!  Spy thinks that attitude is dumb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Do It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritingCyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/gifts).



“You promise you won't laugh?”

Sniper chewed at the inside of his cheek, trying not to look the handsome Frenchman in the eye as he stood before him. Anxious, awkward, he felt his lips grow dry.

Grinding out his cigarette into the glass ashtray on his night stand, Spy smiled up at the pacing Australian before him. Seated comfortably on the edge of his bed, clad in naught but a few hickeys, the Frenchman crossed his legs, ankle-over-knee, and leaned forward. His elbows on his thigh and foot, Spy leaned his chin on his hands, fingers laced together. “Cher, I would never laugh at you.”

“That's a lie.”  
“True. But never in this situation. It is perfectly normal to have certain inclinations in bed. That does not make you any less of a man.”

Sniper frowned, his lip puffing out a bit in a way Spy couldn't help but find unusually cute for the gruff bushman. “It's not proper. In the bush, you get your rocks off, you move on. Back 'ome, this in't the sort of thing that's spoken of. Australians don't do these sorts of things.”

“Then Australia must be far less the paradise of supermen that the rest of the world has been led to believe. For one, too few of them look like you, and too many like moustachioed buffoons, super-science or non.” Spy scoffed a bit, leaning back and catching the taller man's wandering eyes finally. His smile was infectious, finally beginning to show its symptoms on the gunman's lips.

A small half-laugh forced its way from Sniper's nose, pulled back in as he took a breath to calm himself.

“Cher, tell me,” Spy implored, reaching out to brush fingertips across Sniper's thigh as he finally came to a halt.

The gunman stood before him, naked, red-faced, his hair messy and sweaty. A pleasant romp in Spy's quarters had abruptly turned awkward when the lithe rogue had asked Sniper if he wanted to try anything kinky. Drawn from his lover's embrace by his own anxieties, the lanky assassin had become a jumbled pile of discomfort.

Finally, he sat down beside the smaller man, relaxing a little as a warm arm snaked around his waist and pulled him closer. “I er, maybe, rope, or handcuffs?” he mumbled quietly, talking at the floor, his face growing redder as he spoke.

Spy's eyebrow lifted the smallest amount. “You want to tie me up?”

“N-not you, love.”

The Frenchman's understanding smile grew slightly predatory. It had taken him quite some time to get Sniper to admit his preference for bottoming. Hearing he wanted to be tied up, dominated a little, sent a thrill through him. Watching the taller man writing in ecstasy beneath him was amazing, but watching him struggle against bonds as he did; that was a thought that had Spy's body reacting immediately.

His free hand captured Sniper's jaw, a gentle caress as he turned his lover's head, turning him to face him. Lips met softly at first, quickly escalating into open mouths, grappling tongues, and muffled moans as hairy arms wrapped around Spy. Hands roved over warm, scarred flesh, bodies falling back to the bed in a tangled pile of limbs.

Spy wrestled his way to the top, pinning Sniper down on the bed, grinding against him. The soft moans of the Australian beneath him were beautiful to behold, panted breaths with the slightest vocalization, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted. Large, calloused hands slid up Spy's arms to his shoulders. The Frenchman's own mask of pleasure twisted into a wide grin as he sat up on his knees and took hold of Sniper's wrists. He leaned forward and pinned them to the bed above his lover's head, climbing off of the bushman reluctantly. Looking around, Spy found his discarded tie and snatched it from its place, hanging over the awful metal-barred headboard of the creaky military bed BLU had issued to each bunk. It was not the most comfortable, or the most quiet, but thinking quickly, Spy had to admit its advantages. He looped the neck of his tie around Sniper's wrists, pulling it tight.

Sniper watched Spy intently, anxious. Shame forced his lips into a straight line that dipped into a slight frown at the corners. He observed, wide-eyed, as the smaller man tied the other end of his tie in a tight knot around one of the metal bars of the headboard, securing it, and Sniper, to the bed.

Looking down into his lover's eyes, Spy's grin softened back into that understanding smile. His gaze drifted along Sniper's body, the trail of hair than ran from his chest down to the insistent erection standing between thin thighs. The bushman's shame had done nothing to dim his ardor.

“Don't worry, mon chou. I am only willing to go as far as you are,” Spy reassured, his voice soothing. He ruffled his fingers through his partner's short, dark hair. “If ever you aren't comfortable, or I am going too far, simply say the safe word, and I will stop.”

“Safe word?” The way the syllables sank out of Sniper's mouth, it was easy to tell he'd never heard them spoken in conjunction like that before.

“Oui. A word not normally spoken in the heat of passion, so I know you are serious about your displeasure. It is so you can lose yourself in fantasy if you want. You can say no, but mean yes. You can say stop, but mean go. If you want to be the victim, you can play him.”

Sniper gulped audibly, feeling in over his head. His brain was swimming in a bath of hormones and a strange cocktail of emotions. “So, what do I say?”

“We need a word you are not likely to speak in a fit of ardor, nor pleading. How about,” Spy ran fingertips down the line of hair on his captive's belly, thinking. “Cacao.”

“Cacao?”

“Oui, as in chocolate? It seems easy to remember, and easy to hear. A simple safe word.”

Another gulp. “Right.”

Spy's gentle smile grew wider. Planting a kiss on the taller man's forehead, he pulled away to reveal that predatory grin had returned. “Then let us begin, shall we?”

Sniper hissed in a breath as Spy set to immediately assaulting his neck. The handsome rogue above him knew every last inch of his body intimately, knowing exactly where to bite or lick or kiss to draw breathless moans out of him. His neck was very much one of those locations. Kisses, running from shoulder up to behind the bushman's ear, quickly became love bites along the sinewy side of his neck, warm and harsh, claiming him. Spy sucked a bit to draw blood to the surface, marking him with more hickeys he would have to endure ridicule for. It was embarrassing, which in itself only made Sniper love it more. A thrill of humiliation fluttered in his gut as he writhed beneath Spy's grasp. Unable to grip his lover, to crush him to his body, he was left to struggle in his pleasure.

Dextrous hands danced down his body, stopping at his nipple to pinch and flick. The lanky Australian set his jaw, needy groans rolling out of his throat to crash against the backs of his gritted teeth. He could feel Spy smiling against his neck, stubble scratching his skin, so sensitive after so much attention.

That pleasant roughness left him as Spy pulled back to inspect his lover's face. Eyes lazily narrow, Sniper was already a wreck, his face flushed, his neck covered in hickeys, his hips arching up instinctively with every tweak of his nipple. “You like this?”

The gunman made an affirmative, pleading sound, nonsyllabic but meaningful. Spy simply shook his head in response.

“You must tell me,” the Frenchman chastised, letting go of the taller man's nipple and brushing his fingertips through the patch of fuzz on Sniper's chest. “You want more.”

“Yeh,” the Australian croaked out, unable to produce more words as Spy's hand traveled southwards, fingertips dancing down his belly, his abdomen, and up the top side of his erect cock, to trace a line around the ridge of his head. Sniper hissed in a breath, his hips lifting to keep those fingers in contact. Ripples of pleasure washed through him at that lovely touch, brushing circles around him, then down the underside, then back up. Spy softly palmed the head of his lover's manhood, pulling back to allow his digits to resume their delicate dance.

“Tell me what you want,” the rogue commanded, using his other hand to roll his captive's balls in his palm.

“You know what I want.”

“You have to say it.”

“I, I,” Sniper growled in frustration, shivering with each circle of those devilish digits. His lips moved, forming the words, but no sound came out, his eyes darting away from Spy. He could feel his face burning.

“What was that, cher? I could not hear you.”

Sniper's mouth set into a line for just a moment, broken into a gasp as the smaller man's delicate hand wrapped around his warm, firm length and began to pump at it slowly. The Australian faded into a moan, arching into the loose embrace of Spy's palm. “I-”

“You what?”

“I-I want...”

“You want what?” mischief sparkled in the handsome rogue's eye, looking down at his supine captive like a predator circling his newest meal.  
“Nngh.”

Spy's hands left Sniper, the gunman completely bereft of any external sensation but the soft silk of the tie tightly binding his wrists together. The taller man writhed against his bonds, his hips lifting as if the motion alone would bring him his salvation.

“If you can't tell me what you want, how can I give it to you?” Reaching over Sniper to the night stand, Spy snatched up his cigarette case and brought it back over, snapping the case open and looking pointedly at his lover.

Chewing back his frustration, Sniper licked the inside of his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes up at his impatient partner. “You know what I want. Why you gotta make me say it?”

“Because, cher, if you are too uptight to admit you enjoy something as simple as my tying you up and making you squirm and pant and cry my name as I thrust deep into you, over and over, claiming you for my own, well, what are we really doing here, then?” The smaller man idly stroked his own wanting manhood as he spoke.  
Indignance book-ended a rush of lust that blurred Sniper's vision, the picture painted in the Frenchman's words making his imagination reel. “You said you wouldn't--”

“I said I would not laugh at you, and I never would, my darling. But it is difficult to give a man what he wants when he is afraid of that very thing. If you knew the range of perversions held in my libido, you would be curled up in the corner sobbing like a child. It is part of being human. You are not some moustache rack constructed of beef and Australium, non? You are a man, and what is a man but the sum of his experiences? You are holding yourself back, for no reason.” Deciding against his course of action, Spy snapped the cigarette case closed and tossed it aside, wrapping his arms around Sniper, tangling their legs, pressing his warm body against his lover's, his needful erection against the bushman's hip. His lips found that sensitive neck once again, and soon, the taller man was arching hip, pressing himself against his assailant once again, whimpering, tugging against his bonds.

Sniper wanted to touch Spy so badly, to run his rough, broad hands over that lithe body pocked in old bullet wounds and waxy, crinkled burn scars. To sift his fingers through dark hair wet with sweat, to trace that delicate jawline, rough with stubble calculated to present a very specific level of dishevelment against a normally pristine facade. He wanted to squeeze, to grope, to pinch and tickle and spank. He couldn't. The tie around his wrists held him fast, unable to interact in any way but to press his body against Spy's, to angle and wriggle to present the parts where he wanted to be touched. Left unable to do anything but feel, to experience. He was at Spy's mercy, and so merciful it was.

“Fuck me,” Sniper finally gasped as Spy bit down on his nipple. The Frenchman had straddled him, their cocks pressed together not by effort, but by positioning, brushing lightly as he worked his captive below him. Hands groped and scratched, tugged and teased, and when the words finally burst forth from him in such a plaintive, needful plea, the rogue astride him could do naught but grin.

He received his wish.

Spy snatched the bottle of lubricant next to the matches on his night stand and set to work. Settling between his legs, he grabbed one gangly, hairy leg and draped it over his own shoulder, then grabbed the other leg and held it up. Using his free hand, he opened the bottle and brought it up to his mouth, using his teeth to squeeze the plastic tube, squirting thick, clear liquid onto his fingers. He dropped the bottle and grinned down at his captive as that hand sank down out of sight.

A cold, wet finger pressed into Sniper, driving deep into him with swift ease. The slender digit beckoned within him, working him open enough for a second, then a third finger. The Australian had been trained well to take what Spy could give, in spite of his nerves.

Sniper's shoulders ground into the bed, his legs quivering as he lifted his hips for his lover, tugging at the tie holding him. His hands throbbed a bit with trapped blood and dulling senses as the silk pulled tighter around him from his struggles. Those invading fingers slowly left him, their work done, their presence no longer needed. He could hear Spy working between his legs, and suddenly, both legs were over those slim shoulders, and one hand was wrapped around his waist. The smooth, slick heat of the head of the smaller man's cock pressed against his entrance. The bushman could feel a churning in his gut, a tension of anticipation and the ebbing cessation of sensations about to be resumed and reinvigorated roiling within him.

Without a word, just the simple gesture of a smile, Spy pressed inward, sliding in deep, giving Sniper no time to adjust until he was fully enveloped in the burning heat of the bound man's body. The strained groan that the bushman uttered was music to the rogue's ears. His breathing heavy, growing ragged, Sniper struggled to adjust, his brow furrowed, his legs shaking. When he finally had his bearings, Spy leaned forward, bending his captive further in half. That predatory grin returned.

“You are mine,” Spy growled, seizing hold of Sniper's hips. The words rippled through the gunman and right to his groin as the smaller man withdrew, then slammed in, drawing a cry from his throat. He did it again, pulling another groan from him. Then another, then another. A quivering, curling, slithering energy slid up Sniper's spine and curled through his guts; a feral, animal, needful thing that made him thrash in his bonds and moan out curses.

Sniper felt a tingle at his tear ducts, a burn inside his nose, like his body didn't know how to react to the sensory overload. Heat flooded him, pooling in his fingers, his toes, his face, and his groin, buzzing and alive with electric potential. He wanted to grab the sheets. He wanted to grab Spy. He wanted to hold on tight to survive the sweet punishment he was receiving. Spy's tie disallowed him his wants. Spy himself, however, was seeing to his needs, every slap of flesh, every ingress, every grunt of effort driving the breath from Sniper; rough, hot groans spilling out of his mouth and onto the sheets, pooling in his own ears.

Gazing down at his lover, Spy felt his gut twist in the most delightful way, a visceral, animal reaction to the gorgeous sight before him. As he'd imagined, as he'd wanted, he watched as Sniper writhed beneath him, wriggling his bottom to take advantage of every thrust, every intrusion the rogue made, his shoulders flexing, arms straining against his bonds. He tried to free himself, tried to grab onto Spy for dear life and was denied, so he struggled feebly as Spy brought him closer with every movement. Tanned, scarred flesh undulated over ribs and muscle, back arching, belly rising and falling quickly with each ragged breath. Sweat glistened over that uninterrupted skin, matting down the hair at Sniper's temples and along his torso. His brow furrowed, lips parted, eyes shut, he was an immaculate image of perfect, flustered submission.

Spy gripped hard and drove in with vigor, feeling himself nearing climax. His body tightened, strained, and with the difficulty of uncooperative musculature, he buried himself one final time within the bushman, wrenching a cry from him to join his own as he spilled his seed deep inside the supine assassin beneath him. Doubling over, shaking, he watched Sniper's face, his lusty gaze as he realized what had happened; his eyes half-opened to watch Spy as he came, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, sticking up elsewhere, his expression one of complete desperation, satisfaction, loss, and need.

Trying to keep what was left of his energy flowing, Spy grabbed hold of his lover's neglected cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. He was still inside his lover, softening slowly, but worked to keep him as full as he could for as long as he could. His hand began to move.

Sniper's head fell back, his eyes closing as soft, wanting moans replaced the grunts of need and ardor of before. Where he had been taken, claimed, and used, here he was being treated, unable to do it for himself. His pleasure was Spy's aim and it was he alone who would provide it. That skillful, soft hand ran up and down his length, tugging at him, friction and pressure his tools, joined by his other hand gently cupping and rolling the assassin's balls.

Warmth and pressure built within Sniper's gut, his whole body abuzz with overstimulation on every front. Straining, his muscles head to toe going taut, he cried out in a choked groan as he released into Spy's hand.

Falling out of his lover, Spy smiled warmly as he pumped the last of Sniper's orgasm out, letting his legs fall limply to either side as he climbed out from between them. With one hand and a simple show of the dexterity he was known for, the Frenchman quickly undid the knot holding the silk tie to the headboard, letting Sniper slide his hands out with ease. His other hand, covered in his partner's seed, was brought to his lips, his tongue snaking out to lick it off of his skin.

Sniper watched with a shiver, rubbing his wrists, unable to do much else in his desolation.

Reaching for Sniper's discarded shirt, Spy wiped the rest of his hand off and settled in next to his lover, pulling him close. “How are you?”

A sputtering attempt at words were all the Australian could manage, unable to articulate his status.

Spy smiled. “I will take it you are well. Is it everything you'd imagined in the dark, sticky corners of your mind?”

“You make it sound so dirty.”

“Far from it. This was tame, but you had squirreled it away so nervously.”

“Yeah, well.” Sniper sniffed, trying to appear as nonplussed as possible despite looking a complete wreck, his face red, his belly spattered with his own semen, his legs and fingers twitching, his breathing still deep and rough, a sheen of sweat across his body. “That kind of thing's not how we do it in the bush.”

“Oui, but you are not in the bush any longer. And here, we do what feels good.”

A smile crossed the bushman's face, and he nodded. Couldn't argue with that. “It was aces.”

“Good. I admit, I was pleased to hear what you wanted. I've wanted to truss you up for some time. Perhaps next time, I can show you how skilled I am with a longer rope. You mentioned handcuffs, oui? I could also perhaps procure a spreader bar. Definitely a collar.”

That niggling panic that had finally been quashed rose from its ashes, bright and aflame as Sniper beheld Spy's predatory grin. “What I have I gotten meself into?”

**Author's Note:**

> requested by WritingCyan


End file.
